


Days of the Week

by deaddoh



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Beaches, Dusk - Freeform, M/M, Sad, starry skies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-08 15:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deaddoh/pseuds/deaddoh
Summary: The sun, stars, and sea. Life moves, and keeps going.Mark is a writer, simply biding his time at the beach when he meets a photographer with salt and pepper hair.





	1. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun, stars, and sea. Life moves, and keeps going.
> 
> Mark is a writer, simply biding his time at the beach when he meets a photographer with salt and pepper hair.

_ Mark stares out at the sea, the waves like white noise. The waves and sounds of happiness in the air. The sun slowly slides down the sky, darkening the blues to purples.  _

_ The stars come out, dully they shine compared to the lights and life from the nearby city. They’re nothing more than a shadow of what they were long ago, so bright. Telling the stories of championed heros and slain beasts. The faraway planets, the humming stars. _

_ The sky finally dark, the sounds of childhood now asleep, the sun and sand taking their toll. _


	2. Tuesday

_ The sun’s already on its way down by the time Mark gets to the sandy banks of happiness and white noise. The sky slowly becoming an artists dream, a beautiful palate and gradient. The waves lapping at the sun’s feet, slowing drawing it in. _

_ “Excuse me sir?” Mark turns towards a man with salt and pepper hair tied back into a small ponytail. Black framed glasses rest on his nose, his skin fair and accent foreign. “Yes?” _

_ “Can I take a picture of you?” The man looks hopeful, holding a nice camera in his hands, another by his hips. Mark nods, thinking the man beautiful. “Just, keep sitting like that please.” _

_ Mark turns back to the white noise, seeing the sun slide lower into the sea. The man takes several pictures from different angles, using both cameras. “Thank you.” _

_ Mark nods, the man holding out a business card. “Jack. A traveling photographer.” _

_ "Mark. A writer.” _


	3. Wednesday

_The sun is low in the sky, the sounds of quiet chatter float around on the air. Bonfires blaze, sending embers up into the sky. The popping wood throwing embers into the sky to be stars. Mark sits close to the water, the tide sliding away._

_“Hello again.” The voice familiar as the man sits next to Mark, but not too close. Nodding, Mark stares to the sky. The universe humming with heat and shivering with cold. “Would you mind being my subject again?” Shaking his head, Jack smiles. “Good. Are you willing to work with fire?”_

_Mark stands, “Sure, just as long as I don’t get burned.” Handing over a flare, “I have a couple of ideas.” Mark already can assume them, seeing the sparklers and ball of steel wool._

_Jack brings his camera to his face, Mark lights the flare. The smoke engulfs Mark, the light bright. Mark makes shapes, writes words, and poses._

_The sparklers are easier, one, two, three. Shapes. Hearts, squares, circles._

_The ball of steel wool, inside a whisk tied to a length of black rope. Mark spins it in a circle in front of himself, sparks flying. Jack looks in awe, camera resting at his hip. The spinning circle of steel mesmerizing._


	4. Thursday

_ Cold. The wind blows hard, the white noise being blown away. The sea meets the wind halfway, pulling, ripping the sun from the sky. The sunset beautiful, still the oranges and reds shine through the rough waters. The sand blows across the beach, the grains like sandpaper against his clothes. _

_ Mark sits, pulling his hood up to cover his face. Tucking his face between his knees, Mark falls. _

_ The ground falling away, Mark’s hand desperately grasping for the sky of red and orange. He hits water like glass, shattering, splintering. He keeps grasping, hand open, palm up to the sky. _

_ Suddenly, Mark’s in a church. The people frozen, occasionally flickering like an old TV. He makes his way down the center isle, the church oddly silent. He’s standing at the open casket. His father’s eyes staring back at him, glossy and faraway. _

_ Jerking, jarring. Jack’s photographer eyes look worried, troubled. Mark blinks, the tiredness, the sadness. “Why are you sitting in the middle of the beach?”  _

_ And for once, Mark doesn’t have an answer. _


	5. Friday

_Jack is at the beach first. The sun just beginning to slide into the ocean. “Are you alright?” Mark sits next to the photographer, wondering what it’s like to see so much beauty in the world. “Of course.” The sun keeps slipping, slow and colorful. “It-Yesterday scared me. You were sitting on the beach looking dead.” Mark smiles at the concern. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a writer. I get into moods.”_

_Jack frowns and scooches closer, “But-I don’t know you that well. But I worry for you.” Mark shrugs, trying for nonchalant. But his mind races. Blurring and blending. Worlds collide is a crumbling mess, splashing water floods deserts. Oceans ripple with falling glaciers. Forests burn under the desert sun._

_Wetness. Blurry vision. Mark wipes at his tears. And Jack, sweet and caring Jack rushes to Mark’s aid. Handing him a tissue and rubbing his back. A stranger’s back._

_“Why?” Jack’s brows furrow slightly. “Why care for a stranger? Why?”_

_Jack watches. He watches the writer battle something. Something not for him. “Because you are what I was. Alone and afraid.” Mark stares back to the ocean, the sun almost gone under the waves._

_“A stranger.”_


End file.
